The Tailor King
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: Sam patches Crowley up, and gets a story for his troubles: the story of Fergus MacLeod. Following 9x04.


Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Also, I would be a complete liar if I did not admit that Crowley's backstory was influenced more than a bit by Monica Furlong's _Wise Child_.

Sam patches Crowley up, and gets a story for his troubles: the story of Fergus MacLeod. Following 9x04.

_The Tailor King_

Once, long ago, Sam had seen himself as a good person, and a nice one. Then he'd grown up- and grown to hate himself thoroughly- losing in the process any notion of this version of himself. Only in recent months, in tiny pieces, had he begun to recognize any goodness within him. He savored the idea of this good, and he would fight to keep it.

Now, niceness? That was a bit lower on the priority list. He only had the emotional resources left for essential tasks.

And so yes, Sam let himself enjoy the sight of Crowley's misery. The twice-fallen King of Hell was a welcome source of _schadenfreude_, and maybe it was less than nice of him to admit, but Sam pretty much relished visits to the dungeon.

Today was no different. Crowley was pouting over his manacles as Sam entered, and sneered at the crayon placed in front of him.

"I suppose I should be flattered that you think I'd McGyver my way out of these bloody things with anything sharper," he drawled, pushing the crayon away.

Sam pushed it back. "Names," he said.

Crowley sighed dramatically, and made to reach for the crayon once more- but he missed, his hand jerking slightly off course at the last second. Something _was_ different this time, Sam realized: Crowley was shaking.

His satisfaction at this prospect lasted only for a moment. Then curiosity kicked in.

"You're shivering," Sam observed.

"Use _trembling_," Crowley replied smoothly. "Captures the more intimate vibe."

"Are you cold?"

"What do I get for saying yes? Smug satisfaction or a blanket?"

"It's hot as anything down here."

"Really, Moose? And I thought you'd been to, I dunno, Hell?"

Clued in, Sam was beginning to notice other irregularities in the demon: aside from the shaking, Crowley was sweating lightly. His voice, though sardonic as always, was weaker than usual.

"You're sick."

"_Perverse_ is a bit more cutting, but as you like."

"No, I mean, you're actually sick," Sam marveled. "Look at you, you look awful."

"Hardly get the proper chance to groom down here, do I?"

"Do demons even get sick?"

"I don't recall affirming your suspicions."

And then, just like that, Sam had the back of his hand pressed to a demon's forehead.

"You've got a fever," he announced, pulling his hand away. For a moment Crowley seemed surprised enough by Sam's actions not to comment- but the lapse was brief.

"Really?" He gasped. "All right. I'll need a dozen nurses- _assorted_, if you know what I mean- two tubs of petroleum jelly, and a weather-grade thermometer."

Shaking away the unwanted mental image, Sam regarded Crowley with a curiosity that Dean would have found geeky at best, worrisome at worst.

"How the hell did you catch anything down here?"

"Ask your squirrel."

"Dean's not sick."

"No, but I bloody well caught that bullet of his."

"What?" Sam faltered. "You're- is it infected?"

"Can't exactly reach to see, but I have my suspicions."

"Uh-" Dean's voice came into Sam's mind, warning him of tricks, traps, _not-our-problems_. But Crowley's humanity- whatever vestiges of it there were to be found- were at least in part Sam's doing, and so his normally acute curiosity was intensified tenfold. "Can I see?"

"Take these off and I'll show you myself," Crowley countered, raising his shackled hands.

Taking that to be as much consent as he'd get, Sam reached over and unknotted Crowley's tie, then undid the first few buttons of his shirt.

Pulling back the fabric revealed a wound so gruesome that the average human would have probably recoiled. Sam himself couldn't help but wince.

Crowley squirmed, straining to observe his own chest with his neck still collared. "Is it?"

"I'll say," Sam replied, distracted. The bullet was still visible behind edges of raw, angry skin; dried blood disguised the red lines of infection that spread out in all directions. Pus swelled liberally throughout.

"How long has it been like this?"

Crowley cocked his head, eyebrows raised. It was the first time Sam had ever seen him genuinely indecisive for anything other than comedic purposes.

"You've- you've been shot before."

"It normally heals in a minute or two. I guess I've got you to thank for that, dear."

"You think this is from my blood?"

"Can't think of any other reason."

"How do you feel, uh- otherwise?"

Crowley glared. "You mean, do I feel the urge to tearfully repent my evil deeds and dedicate my life to rescuing shelter dogs? I do not."

"I think- I think I'm gonna have to clean this out." Sam gave himself a beat to acknowledge the strangeness of the situation before looking back up to gauge Crowley's reaction. Predictably, he looked less than pleased.

"Leave it," he grunted.

"It's bad. You'll need a round of antibiotics too."

"I said _leave it_, Moose," Crowley huffed, pulling away from Sam and wincing as his shirt fell back over the wound.

"Look, if you're still whatever fraction human- this may not heal."

"So it doesn't heal," Crowley countered. "What exactly am I living for, these riveting conversions?"

Sam blinked. "What?"

"Leave me be. Take your crayon and go find me those nurses."

"I'm gonna go get the first aid kit."

"_Why_?" Crowley snapped, catching Sam's gaze and holding it tightly. "What are you keeping me around for? What's in it for you- am I your pet now? Some cat daddy. You'll do this for me but you won't even give me television privileges? It's inhumane."

"You're not human."

"I was once!"

Sam snorted. "Yeah. Fergus MacLeod, right?"

"Worth the deal to end up with a better name," Crowley joked weakly. "Everything else was just icing."

"You mean the extra inches?"

"If you like."

Sam paused. "Who was she?"

"Who?" Crowley snorted faintly. "You think I did it for _love_? Quaint, Samantha. And I thought you knew me."

"Then why?"

"Business."

"You were a tailor."

"By day. By night... I was a whore."

"Wait, what?"

With sweat glossy on his forehead and his teeth chattering like dice in a tumbler, Crowley's laughter was nothing short of terrible. "It warms me deeply to know I can still surprise."

"Uh- which came first?"

"The deal or the _deed_?"

"Yeah."

"You're actually expecting to hear about it. Story time with Moose and Boris, is that it?"

"Well, I'm gonna have to patch you up, aren't I?"

Crowley regarded him with a look that was at once frustrated, suspicious, and a little bit amused.

Sam shrugged innocently. "Be back," was all he said.

A few minutes later, he was back in the dungeon, towing the first aid kit, as well as a bottle of whiskey and a glass of water. Crowley regarded him wordlessly as he set the water within Crowley's reach, then placed the rest on the ground. After a long moment of contemplation, he unlocked Crowley's handcuffs, leaving him shackled only by his neck and ankles. Then he fished out a bottle of antibiotics and shook a few pills free.

Crowley accepted them into his palm and then, just as Sam was beginning to doubt that he would, he tossed the pills back and drained the water in one pull. Then, moving gingerly, he tugged his suit jacket off and lay it neatly on the table.

"Okay," Sam said, breathing deeply. "Okay."

"Hands steady?" Crowley droned. "Shall I pop in a meditative CD?"

Forceps in one hand, Sam pulled the free chair up next to Crowley's, and leaned forward, closer than he'd ever intended, right into the demon's personal space. Now that the initial shock of Crowley being injured was over, the wound didn't look so bad- it was relatively shallow, and the infection seemed only on the surface. The bullet was whole. Nevertheless, it was in deep enough that Sam knew removing it would cause fairly substantial bleeding. He pulled a few pads of gauze from the kit and laid them on the table.

Crowley's face was blank as Sam braced one hand against his chest and positioned the forceps around the bullet. Without giving warning, he pulled; with one sharp tug, the bullet came free.

Crowley's scream was short-lived but unfettered.

Fresh blood swelled from the bullet's cavity; Sam grabbed a wad of gauze and pressed it down hard, feeling Crowley's pulse pounding against his fingers from all sides. At the demon's hapless groan he glanced up, and couldn't help but chuckle quietly.

"Laugh it up, Moose, 'cause I think I'm about to puke," Crowley slurred. "Last time I did that, Queen Anne was on the throne."

"Don't be a wuss," Sam chided- though he edged away slightly nevertheless. Crowley swallowed hard once, twice, but nothing more came of it. Slowly, Sam felt the tension of pain ebb away beneath his hand, as Crowley's body sagged in relief at the bullet's absence. His eyes slipped shut, and Sam was struck with the uncomfortable realization that every one of the demon's defenses had dropped entirely. Sam could kill him then and there and he'd never see it coming-

Feeling a bit queasy himself now, Sam merely added another wad of gauze as the first soaked through.

"Tell me," he said tightly.

"You- really want to know?" Crowley was panting.

"Yeah. Tell me how this started."

"I don't- I don't know where to begin."

"Your mom," Sam prompted. "You called yourself the son of a witch. Is that true?"

Crowley nodded, his entire body shaking with the aftermath of adrenaline.

"Tell me about her."

"Her name- was Rhona."

"Was she... a good witch? Or...?"

"What the bloody hell do you think?"

"Okay. So, she raised you to be a witch too? Family tradition?"

"She didn't want anything to do with me," Crowley snapped.

"What about-?"

"Moose," Crowley gasped, and it took Sam a second to realize he was actually laughing- not angrily or meanly, but in sort of a tiredly amiable way. "If you want me to tell the bloody story, then let me tell the bloody story."

Sam nodded.

Crowley blinked up at him drowsily, finally beginning to go still. "My mum was a witch- a powerful one. In her blood, you know- some people seek it out. She was born with it. I was, too. My dad left when he realized I'd be the same- and I don't think she ever forgave me. I was seven then."

Sam's fingers grew wet once more, and he realized the second gauze had soaked through. He added a third, and stayed silent.

"She wanted nothing to do with me," Crowley went on. "For two years I just sort of- fended for myself. Slept in her house some nights, yes, but found my own food. Sewed my own clothes. And Mum was like a child who'd forgotten a toy- didn't want me until someone else did."

Sam couldn't stop himself from prompting one last time. "Who else?"

Crowley frowned; here at last, Sam sensed, was the real story.

"Her name was Neve," Crowley said.

* * *

Fergus MacLeod was starving, and that was not a word he used lightly. He'd been hungry before- hungry was practically a given- but starving was relatively new. And he didn't like it one bit.

For two years now he'd looked after himself; sure, there were odd days of kindness on his mother's part, that resulted in a bowl of stew or a bit of stale bread. But mostly he was on his own- not that he minded. In the summer, there were berries, apples, roots, rabbits, and fish, if you knew where to gather and how to cook. There was honey too, as well as eggs and milk, if you knew where to find it. In the winter... well, in the winter there were neighbors that could be won over with a simper and a crocodile tear. Poor little Fergus- orphaned overnight by his father, and slowly, painfully by his mother. Most days, someone in the village could spare half a plate at the very least.

And when they couldn't, he came back at night and took it anyway.

He did all right- at least he had been doing. Now, entering the third year of his half-exile, things were rapidly changing. The harvest had been poor, and winter was coming early; even the kindest of neighbors had begun to turn him away, saving their food for their own hungry families.

He'd been a lost child for ages now. But for the first time, Fergus was actually feeling it.

The cycle was vicious: hunger made him a worse hunter, and poor hunting only made him hungrier. He'd been tracking the same damn rabbit for nearly half an hour now, scrabbling over leaves and branches towards the spotted brown blur. The thing was skin and bones- probably starving just as he was. Bad luck it still was well enough to run.

The rabbit appeared again in the corner of his eye, and Fergus turned sharply to continue. He held out one hand and _willed_ the thing to stop, but it was no use. Hunger had dulled his mind just as it had done his body.

Frustrated, exhausted, and all-around miserable, Fergus forced himself to give one final leap, over a fallen, mossy log- and right down a slippery hill beyond.

He knew what would happen the instant before. And then the snap came, and Fergus collapsed in a heap, screaming as pain lanced out from his broken leg to every last point in his body.

Sliding a few feet further down, Fergus finally came to a stop near a massive tree. There was strength left in him to hoist his torso up against its trunk, then Fergus was finally out of everything. He closed his eyes. His nose was filled with the sickly sweet smell of decaying leaves; all other senses were filled with the white-blue heat of _pain_. At least it deadened the hunger.

A fire, he decided- a fire might at least help him last the night, or maybe attract someone's attention. Once again he held his hand up and forced himself to see the flames, in his mind, taking over the nearest pile of brush. But he hadn't had enough power in him to make a rabbit stop running; he certainly didn't have enough to make fire.

He was going to die there. His mother would be nothing but relieved, and the villagers would all assume that someone else had taken care of the poor MacLeod orphan. And there he'd be, rotting under the tree in a pile of horrible leaves, and nobody would ever know.

Another child might have wept. And it wasn't that Fergus didn't want to- more that he couldn't remember how. Instead he wrapped his arms around himself as tightly as he could manage, and waited for the devil to take him.

He wasn't sure if it was pain or sleep that had carried him away, but he came awake all at one to the sound of his name being spoken, somewhere high above him.

"Fergus."

Fergus flinched away from the soft, low voice.

"Fergus MacLeod."

A woman knelt before him, the hem of her clean grey dress soaking up mud from the ground below. She was pretty enough: tall and tan, brown-haired and green-eyed, about the same age as his mother. But Fergus wasn't fooled; he knew that evil could wear any face it chose to.

"Are you the devil? Or a demon?"

"Not yet, child."

Choosing to ignore her strange answer, Fergus instead lowered his eyes. "Mum says the devil's gonna take me."

"Not tonight. May I see your leg?"

"It's broken," he said dumbly.

"I know, love. May I see it?"

With little choice but to trust her, Fergus leaned back, exposing his injury to her. And as she studied it, Fergus realized with a little jolt that he knew who she was, though they'd never spoken. Neve, the villagers called her- though they typically used more creative names than that. She lived on the outskirts, twice as far from the center of town as the second-farthest house.

She was a witch, he knew- like his mother, like he himself. It was enough of a reason for him to never, ever come near her, even when he'd asked at every other door there was.

And yet- there was goodness in her. He could feel it, coming off of her like physical heat.

"You're Neve."

"Yes."

"They say you're a witch."

"Do they?"

"My mum's a witch."

"Why were you in the woods, Fergus?" Neve asked, instead of replying.

Fergus considered lying for half a second, before realizing that he had absolutely no reason to do so.

"Trying to catch a rabbit. I'm hungry."

"And you fell down this hill?"

He nodded.

"Does it hurt?"

"Eh, a bit. I suppose." Truth be told, since Neve's arrival the pain in his leg had faded to a manageable ache. Fergus wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

"May I heal it?" Neve asked, after a pause.

"What? Can you? Have you- have you got a bandage?"

Neve smiled. Then before Fergus knew what was happening, she had both hands pressed directly over the break.

For an instant the pain was beyond conception, then just as quickly its fire went out. An odd shifting, like insects crawling, filled Crowley's leg, and then Neve pulled her hands away with a contented look on her face.

Fergus stared unblinkingly at his unbroken leg.

Magic wasn't new to him, no, but this- _this._ It was more than magic. It was a miracle.

And then, as though she hadn't saved him enough already, Neve pushed to her feet and said, "I'm hungry as well. Let's have dinner." And she strode away. Fergus followed. What else was there to do?

The walk to Neve's house was short, and they were silent the whole way. Fergus's mind automatically kept track of where they were going, and planned escape routes the whole way- even though something deep within him told him that it wasn't necessary.

Finally they reached Neve's house. Inside it was warm; a fire was already going in the stove, and despite himself, Fergus gave a huge shiver of relief. Neve didn't respond, but pulled both chairs out from the table and put them next to the fire. He sank into one wordlessly, and a moment later there was a massive blanket being wrapped about his shoulders.

Fergus wanted quite desperately just to put his head in his arms for a minute, to savor the feeling of being warm and healthy and alive. But there was far too much to see. Every inch of space in Neve's house seemed crammed with something: herbs, flowers, onions, potatoes, honeycomb, stones, pots, bowls, feathers, skins, fabrics, books. From the ceiling hung charms and herb bundles; in a corner sat a small table with dozens of mortar and pestle sets in varying colors and sizes. And on every surface, in every cranny, bottles. Glass bottles- brown, green, blue, clear- some large, some small, each with a neat label tied around its neck.

So great was his fascination that Fergus didn't even smell the food until Neve was slipping the plate into his hands. But in an instant, hunger overrode everything, and he was tearing into the meal without even acknowledging his hostess. She didn't seem to mind. Instead she perched herself on the chair beside him, and joined him in working through chicken and cheese, then thick bread smeared with honey. When they had both finished, Neve whisked away with their empty plates and returned with two large mugs of yellow milk.

Full and warm now- both for the first time in weeks- Fergus had to fight the urge to let his eyes droop, to surrender to a rare moment of comfort. Instead he forced himself to sit up straight in his chair.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked plainly.

"You needed help. I wanted to help you."

"Why?"

"Do I need to have a reason, child?"

"People usually do."

"I'm a healer," she replied, after a pause. "It's what I live to do."

"Is your power from God?" Fergus questioned, staring her down. Neve smiled.

"Something like that," she replied, and he couldn't help but notice how sad she sounded.

"Is it from the Devil?"

Now the sadness became shock, and Neve's eyes widened. For the first time all night, she looked ill at ease. "Now why would you ask me that, Fergus?"

_Because Mum used to say that's where hers came from_, Fergus wanted to reply, but instead he shrugged.

Neve's smile returned, but smaller than it had been. "Something a bit closer to the devil than to God, I suppose," she replied.

* * *

"She made a deal." Sam couldn't think of anything else Neve could have meant by her statement.

"Two years before that," Crowley affirmed. "The ability to heal anyone who came to her of anything that ailed them. The herbs and potions were just for show and superstition- she could have cured the plague with a carrot if she'd fancied it."

"She sold her soul- _to be a healer_?"

"Something to look into," Crowley commented dryly, as Sam pulled the bloody gauze away to inspect the entry wound. "How have you two made it this far with this set of first aid skills?"

"Well, maybe if you'd spoken up sooner-"

"When?" Crowley posed, reasonably. "You leave me down here for a week sometimes."

"We're gonna start on this again?" Satisfied that the bleeding was slowing, Sam snagged the whiskey from the floor.

Crowley blanched at the sight of it, understanding Sam's intentions immediately. "Honestly," he drawled, "hydrogen peroxide. Two quid. I'll fund it if necessary."

"Peroxide stings too."

"Ah, but it would make me feel a bit less like a hostage of Doc Holiday."

Sam unscrewed the cap. Pressing a clean towel under the wound, he splashed a quantity of the alcohol unceremoniously over Crowley's exposed skin.

Crowley went rigid, squirming then bucking in his seat. For a moment, words seemed to escape him. Then he inhaled a sharp gasp. "Bollocks," he hissed.

"I can't get over it," Sam commented, ignoring him, still thinking of Neve. "She volunteered to spend an eternity in Hell- so she could save other people?" Using the towel, he wiped the excess whiskey from Crowleys chest.

"Oh, don't pretend that doesn't make sense to you," Crowley sniffed, color slowly returning to his face. "That's practically your job description."

"Far from it," Sam argued. "She sounds pretty incredible."

Crowley's face softened. "She was."

"So what happened after the first day? Did you stay with her?"

"Seven years."

Towel back in place, Sam was rinsing the wound with a water bottle now. "You lived with her?"

"I suppose. Still stayed with my mum some nights, but Neve looked after me from there on out. I don't know exactly how it happened. She taught me, you know. She couldn't do what I can- she wasn't pyrokinetic or telekinetic, but she could still- make things happen. She taught me spells, and potions."

"She adopted you, just like that?"

"No, it wasn't _just like that_," Crowley snapped, mimicking Sam's accent- though overshooting it by a hair. "Brevity, Moose. I'm skipping the bits where I was a suspicious little shit. And the bits where she taught me to cook, and garden, and pour a beer... although I suppose a bit worth mentioning is how much my mother hated the whole affair. There were months I didn't see her at all. Then again, there were months that she'd convince me that- well, there were months I didn't see Neve either."

"And that was- how things were."

"That was how things were," Crowley repeated.

"Until her deal came due?"

Crowley frowned, seeming to shrink in on himself ever-so-slightly. "No. Not exactly."

* * *

At sixteen, Fergus was hardly the tiny boy that Neve had rescued all those years ago. He was nearly grown now, almost as tall as Neve- and he was _strong._ The fires that came sporadically for him in his youth were now laughably simple things to create, and the will within his mind was enough to move anything he pleased. Neve had taught him to read not only English but Gaelic and Latin as well, and the spells and herbal knowledge within him would have made for an impressive witch even if he hadn't been born with anything at all.

And that was only Neve's influence. Though most days he resisted her teachings, Rhona MacLeod had taught her son plenty as well.

They said nothing of Neve's deal, though they both knew the end of the contract was fast approaching. And slowly, steadily, Fergus watched it take its toll. Some days she would wake him before dawn and cram knowledge until him until well past midnight, seemingly petrified at the thought of running out of time. Some days she barely greeted him, would wander the woods by herself for hours at a time.

Neve spoke of it directly only once, just one clue to Fergus about exactly how long she had left. Beltane, Midsummer, and Lughnasadh passed without comment, but as they decorated her house to celebrate the harvest, Neve sighed. "My last Mabon," she said simply, and Fergus felt a block of ice settle in his stomach that would never truly melt for the rest of his days.

Not long after, Rhona demanded a visit. Fergus went, but swore to himself that it would be the last until after Neve's debt had come due. He stayed only a few hours, eager to return to the woman who was actually his family, the woman with whom he had less than a year left.

It happened in the kitchen, while Neve was mixing herbs into the stew and Fergus was skimming cream from the milk pail. They were chatting about nothing in particular, and Fergus sensed nothing out of the ordinary- until Neve's end of the conversation abruptly ended.

Fergus looked up from the milk. Seized by an unseen power, Neve had gone perfectly still; only her eyes could move, and they darted about like rabbits, searching for the source of the spell.

A single trail of blood spilled out from her lips, dripping down her chin.

Fergus gasped. He'd seen this before- it was a hex bag, to be sure, and now the task was to find it. Fast as a madman, he tore through the house, breaking bottles left and right, desperately reaching out in his mind for the vein of dark magic in the ocean of good.

Behind him there was a crash as Neve collapsed to the floor.

Not in the kitchen. Not in the fireplace. How hard could it be to find something so completely out of place? Fergus tried to clear his mind, but the panic kept welling up and washing his focus away.

Not under the rug. Not in the loose floorboard.

"Fer- us-"

Fergus whipped around. Neve's arm was outstretched, twitching spastically as the rest of her body convulsed on the floor. Blood covered her lips, her chin, her neck, and she struggled to speak around the quantity still in her mouth.

Torn between his need to go to her and his need to find the hex bag, Fergus chose the latter, and began to look again.

"Plee- Fer'us-"

Neve's voice demanded his presence, and Fergus couldn't help but stop his search again to go to her side. He knelt, and seized her hand.

"'s too- la'e," Neve whispered, and Fergus could feel his head shaking, violently, of its own accord. "Lis'en. They're- comin'. Plee- stay."

"Who-" he began, and then he knew.

Outside the house: barking. Hellhounds.

"No," Fergus whispered.

Dropping Neve's hand, he sprang to his feet and began to cast a circle around her body. Reciting the words she had taught him, fortifying it with his own force of will, Fergus cast the circle that might save his teacher, his only friend, from the damnation that would follow her death. For death was no longer the enemy, Fergus realized with a jolt. This was not a fight to keep Neve alive; this was a battle for her soul.

More barking. Neve cried out, blood spilling around her on the floor.

The door to the house crashed open.

Growls filled the room, and _evil_- dark and dank and stronger than anything Fergus had ever felt- flooded over him.

"Fergus!" Neve screamed. Her voice was clear now, the blood gone from her mouth; the hex had done its duty and had left her.

There was a pull at his chest and suddenly Fergus's brain was on fire. The Hounds were trying to break the circle.

"Let it go!" Neve commanded.

In too much agony to speak, Fergus merely shut his eyes and set his jaw. The torment in his head was so intense, he barely felt the teeth sinking into his leg.

"They'll kill you!"

And then there was another presence in Fergus's head, warm and sweet, washing over him and pushing away the darkness. He gasped aloud as the pain vanished. Neve was inside of him, protecting him-

Disabling him.

The circle fell.

The Hounds lunged at Neve's body with impossible greed, tearing into her legs, her abdomen, her chest. The sounds of screams and ripping fabric clashed with the stench of human blood and the vertigo taking over Fergus's world as he stumbled to Neve's side and took her face in both hands.

He found no words in that moment, only the strength to press a kiss on her forehead before the evisceration abruptly ceased.

It was as though a light had gone from the room, had gone from Fergus's mind. The Hounds had disappeared; Neve was dead.

Howling like a madman, Fergus pulled Neve's bloody body into his lap. He bowed his head and wept.

* * *

"She had nearly a year left."

Sam twitched, startled by the sound of Crowley's voice after they had so long sat in silence. It had to have been at least ten minutes now that he had been staring into space, trying to digest the idea of Crowley actually mourning for someone. And Crowley himself- he hadn't moved a muscle. Sam wasn't sure he'd even been breathing.

"You can do a lot with a year." The demon's voice was hollow, bottomless. "She saved at least one poor bugger a week. That's forty or fifty more she could have- would have meant a lot to her."

"What did you do?"

"I slaughtered my entire village, and gave their souls up in homage to Lucifer."

Sam blinked.

Crowley rolled his eyes and sighed slowly. "I convinced our tailor to take me as an apprentice, despite my advanced sixteen years. Then I spent the next decade on a bender, mending trousers. Ooh," he added, "say that three times fast."

"Who- hexed her? Your mother?"

Crowley nodded. "The hex bag was in my pocket. I found it later. She must have slipped it in there when I'd been visiting."

"And you couldn't sense it there?"

"I was looking for a patch of darkness that stood out," Crowley replied tightly. "I- well. My own darkness hardly stood out to me anymore. The hex bag blended in."

Sam had no idea how to reply to that, so he didn't. "What happened to your mother?" he asked instead- but Crowley said nothing.

"So," he fumbled, trying again. "You really were the village tailor."

Crowley laughed gruffly, some of the darkness clearing from his face. "I was. Got the shop when old man Drummond popped off. Twenty-five at that point. Started running my other business out the side door, if you catch my drift. First time it wasn't even intentional, but when you fancy sex as much as I do and then realize you can get paid for fucking... well. How could I refuse? And I did well. Good at what I did. Not to mention I had little competition- only bloke who'd take blokes for ten villages out."

Suddenly Crowley stopped and chuckled. "This entire bloody day of feverish soul-baring has been worth it for the look on your face at this very moment. And now I've the urge to elaborate. Would you rather hear stories of me pitching or catching? Perhaps both simultaneously?"

Sam shook his head, trying and failing to banish the stunned expression that seemed to be giving the demon so much joy. "You were literally a prostitute."

"Mum wanted me a witch; Neve wanted me a healer. I became a hooker. There's always a third door."

"A tailor hooker."

"Tinker, tailor, hooker, spy. Not a soldier. Needed another occupation to fill it in."

"So what happened next?"

"Kept on. Eventually I knocked up a lawyer's daughter. Her daddy offered me a pretty penny if I'd marry her and preserve her honor, so I did. Our son, I believe Bobby Singer may have mentioned. Gavin. Never had much to do with the bastard. Well, not technically a bastard, I guess is my point. Though I'm sure I had a few of those kicking around the Highlands as well."

Sam felt disapproval instantly wash away the reluctant interest on his face. Noticing, Crowley fixed him with a cold stare.

"Did you think it was gonna all be gay sex and witches fighting for my soul? Good guys don't become demons, Moose. I was a shit person and a shit father. Sorry, I don't tag for triggers."

"You had a son. And you just..."

"Let him live in the house his grandfather bought for me? Pretty much. His mum had her side amusements, and I had mine. I fed him and gave him a bed. Better than my dad did for me. And I never laid a finger on him. Better than your dad did for you, eh?"

Sam's only response was to pull the suturing kit from the bag, and thread the needle.

"Why'd you make your deal?"

"Always knew I would one day," Crowley replied dismissively. "Never was a question of _if_ so much as _when._ I was about forty. Aging like a fine wine, you know, but- business wasn't as quite as good as it had been. Needed that extra draw. And at that point I was surprised I'd waited so long. So I made the deal."

"Just like that?"

Crowley cocked his head to one side in an approximated shrug. "The main fallacy to your reasoning is that you seem to think I placed value on my human life. I didn't."

Guiding the skin together with his left hand, Sam began to sew.

"Ten years passed," Crowley continued, hardly needing prompting any more. "Hounds came. You know the deal. Didn't miss a step, me. Hell was a ladder I was meant to climb."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm the Bella Swan of demons," Crowley chuckled. "I was- born to be one. Most souls down there take ages to go bad, but mine- well. It already was. Spent a few months on the rack mostly as a technicality. The second Alistair offered me the chance to join the staff, I did."

Sam paused, his mind flashing, unbidden, to the image of Dean finally taking Alistair up on his offer after thirty hell-years of torture. He stomach clenched to think of Crowley doing so willingly- with gusto, in fact. "And then?"

"Spent a while torturing, you know. I suppose a century or two passed up here. Entry-level position. I, eh, spent my free time _networking_."

Something about the way he said it clued Sam into a hidden meaning. "Wait- you literally slept your way up the chain of command? In Hell?"

"Now, that's just boxing me in, mate," Crowley warned. "Witch in life, witch in hell. All of things I could do on Earth, I could still do. All my powers served me well- and being good between the sheets was only one of them."

Hearing Hell described as some sort of corporation was making Sam nervous, not to mention slightly dizzy. He began to stitch again, tight and neat.

"Caught Lilith's attention," Crowley continued. "She gave me the red eyes- made me a salesman. Position came with a hand-selected meatsuit," he added, glancing down at his body.

With yet another surge of discomfort, Sam remembered that it wasn't really Crowley's flesh he was mending, but rather that of some random human who was hopefully quite dead by now. "What was his name?" Sam asked quietly.

"Don't remember," Crowley replied dismissively. "Not sure I ever knew. He was a literary agent- British, obviously, living in New York. I liked the look. Not too far off from how I used to be. Bit less hair, but that's all right; too many demons take these pretty young things. Moronic. None of us are young. I was fifty-two when I died, and that was three hundred years ago. And three hundred years up here is a _bloody long time_ in Hell."

"Neve tried to save you," Sam replied quietly, unable to shake that part of Crowley's story.

"Well aware of that, Moose. And she gave it a good go. But you can't fight blood. Thicker than water and all that."

"Did she- actually end up in Hell?"

"She did."

"How do you know for sure?"

"Crossroads demons have free reign down there, and up here. And when you're not summoned- eh. You can fairly well do as you like." For half a second, Sam almost wanted to laugh at the thought of demonic down time, but he stopped himself.

"What did- you do? What does a demon do off the clock?"

Crowley shrugged. "Fuck. Fap. Wander. And I- I'd wander anywhere, Hell or Earth. And one day, I found her."

* * *

It was probably a strange pastime, touring Hell as though the strung-up souls were scenery. But Crowley had stopped caring about propriety long ago, if he ever had at all.

Hell was endless, fields of metal webs and endless stretches of racks and other restrains. Some souls were tortured almost relentlessly; some found it worse to be ignored, even if the alternative was pain, and so they were left alone. Today Crowley had happened upon a long, desolate row of such people, spaced so far apart that even in the utter silence they couldn't speak to one another.

It was there, in the void, that Crowley saw her.

He'd encountered familiar souls before: people that he'd made deals with as humans, now serving their eternal sentence to repay the ten years of pathetic pseudo-happiness they'd been afforded. He'd even come across a handful of sinners he'd known as a human. But there, strung up before him, was the one soul he'd never have prepared to see.

"Neve!"

Her eyes were closed, her head lolling. Forgetting his surroundings, Crowley rushed at the bound woman and immediately set to work undoing her restraints. At last, the bonds fell away and he tugged her broken body to the floor.

"Can you hear me? Neve?" Crowley hissed, shaking her by the shoulder. She didn't respond. He eased her upper body into his lap, a sick echo of how he'd once sat to mourn her, so many years ago.

Slowly, Neve opened her eyes- and screamed.

"Neve, no, don't- it's me," Crowley hissed, suddenly aware that he looked and sounded nothing like he once had. "It's me," he said again, feeling utterly moronic.

"Please!" She screamed, her once beautiful voice now a harsh and broken thing.

"Neve," Crowley said again. Everything inside of him was blurring together, the human bits like dregs in a tea cup stirred up chaotically by an unexpected splash of water. He'd never spoken her name with this mouth, with this voice. "Neve," he repeated, once more.

"Fergus?" Neve whispered. "My Fergus?"

"It's me," Crowley soothed, and watched as a smile passed across Neve's swollen face.

"I see you now," she sighed, and Crowley felt the tornado in his gut spin faster and faster, more bits and pieces of the man he'd once been springing to life, stabbing him from the inside out. Seeing Neve again was a miracle. It was also the cruelest torture he could have imagined, the first torture he'd experienced that he wasn't sure he could survive.

Silent tears began to roll down Neve's cheeks. "Fergus," she murmured, wrapping both hands around his. He nearly winced at the slippery warmth of her blood. "I prayed for you," she moaned. "Oh, gods, I prayed for you. And here you are. Gods, I tried. I tried so hard."

Neve's quiet disappointment hit him like a fist in the gut.

"I'll get you out," Crowley swore. "Neve, I'll get you out of here."

"Why? Why, child?"

"Because you don't deserve to be here," he bawled, pulling her hand to his face, marking himself with her innocent blood. "You don't deserve to be here."

"Does anyone?"

"Yes. I do."

For a long moment, Neve said nothing. Then she nodded. "Yes, you do," she admitted, then turned and pressed a kiss against his chest.

And were he still human- were he still Fergus, with a heart left to break- Crowley knew it would have broken then and there.

* * *

"What did you do?" Sam had stopped stitching, and Crowley barely seemed cognizant of the wound in his chest any longer. There was no denying that Sam had long since stopped mining for useful information from the demon and had started to genuinely wonder what would happen next.

"I knew a way into Heaven," Crowley replied, like that was nothing. "Not unlike what you tried to do for Bobby Singer, though I had to take her there myself. I thought- if she could just have a chance to plead her case-" Crowley shook his head. "Only bugger I ever met who sold her soul because of how _good_ she was. I thought if she could just make that clear-"

He trailed off, and to fill the silence, Sam began to stitch again.

"Turns out, most of those feathery pricks couldn't give a goat's ass about whether or not someone was innocent," Crowley continued at last. "We were- intercepted- upon entrance. I tried to argue for Neve, but I suppose Naomi didn't find me to be an acceptable character witness."

"Naomi? She's the one that intercepted you?"

"She was. Never made mention of our business dealings, eh? Couldn't sense that tension there?"

"She called Bobby innocent," Sam recalled. "Saved his soul from the lock you had on it." Remembering that moment should have effectively put Sam off from the conversation, but somehow he couldn't leave now.

"Theatrics," Crowley dismissed. "She'd've taken Hitler to Heaven if I called keepsies on him."

"So she wouldn't take Neve?"

"Not without- arrangements."

* * *

What had started out a fairly normal day had taken so many turns that it was giving Crowley agita. Finding Neve- that had sent him on such a roller coaster of angst that he was pleased to find by now his demonic defenses had slammed back into place. But smuggling her upstairs, though less traumatizing, was hardly a walk in the park, and now this bitchy ginger angel was agreeing to _discuss_ the situation, though she would _prefer_ if they could do so at a more _neutral_ location.

And fine, he wouldn't want an angel in Hell any more than she seemed to want him in Heaven. But it was still a rude shock to be one moment in an all-white, dusty-smelling room and the next at a high top table in some human bar.

None of the patrons seemed to notice their sudden appearance. They did, however, begin casting eyes on Neve, sitting tattered and bloody between her two smartly suited companions.

"Allow me, dear," Naomi simpered, and then with a snap of her fingers Neve was clean, her clothing restored.

Crowley felt a sneaking guilt for not having thought of it first; to compensate, he scowled around the room.

"Where's this?"

"Mesopotamia."

"We call that _Iraq_ now, dear," Crowley replied smoothly.

"Mesopotamia, Ohio. At a bar called CJ's." At his skeptical expression, Naomi shrugged. "Everyone's got their haunts. Put shields up around this place a long time ago. Block the _radio_, you know."

Before Crowley had time to dig deeper into this, a young woman in a short skirt approached them. "What can I start you all off with?" she chirped, notepad aloft.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at Naomi, who shrugged.

By this point he was too tired and too off his game to argue the course of events. "Glenncraig scotch," he told the waitress. "Neat."

"Uh... I don't think we have that."

Crowley shot a scandalized look at Naomi, who smirked.

"What kind of scotch do you have then?"

"Uh..."

"Johnnie Walker?" Naomi cut in smoothly. "You have that, I assume?"

"Y-yeah."

"He'll have a Johnnie. I'll have a glass of red- whatever the bartender recommends. And you, dear?" She glanced politely over at Neve.

Neve opened her mouth, closed it again, then forced a calm smile. "I'll have water, please," she said, addressing not Naomi but the server. At the sound of her voice, her familiar rhotic lilt, flutters of Crowley's carefully tethered grief reawoke with a jolt. He glanced around the room without noticing any of it. Their drinks arrived. Crowley took an unceremonious mouthful of his mass-produced scotch and tried to ignore how Neve approached her water: timidly at first, then like a wounded, wild animal.

Eased by the burn in his throat and the smoothness of the glass beneath his fingers, Crowley breathed deeply and turned to Naomi. "So."

"So."

"You know my terms, love. Haven't got a soul to offer in exchange, but you wouldn't be here if there were nothing I could tempt you with."

Sipping her wine, Naomi regarded Crowley, Neve forgotten in both of their peripheries. "Shall I get straight to it?"

"If that's your style."

"There's an angel I'd like dead," Naomi said plainly.

"Ooh, party politics."

"Unfortunately. I'll provide the weapon; you've just got to swing it, and keep my name out of the aftermath."

"Is that all?"

"Is that _all_?" Naomi repeated. "Yes, I _only_ want you to slay a ranking member of God's celestial army."

"Deal," Crowley replied. "Give me the name and the blade and consider it done. But you take Neve to Heaven now- she's been downstairs long enough."

Naomi regarded him a long moment, then nodded. "Deal," she said, then added impishly, "don't you boys have a sort of tradition for sealing these things?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow, but leaned towards her anyway. "You lot love tradition, don't you?"

"I'm not one to argue with it," Naomi replied, then flashed a small, crooked smile. With one hand, Crowley cupped her chin, pulling her gently at first then with one final tug.

Their lips found each other's, pressing together, everything warm and and soft and in motion. Naomi opened her mouth, and the taste of her wine and his scotch ran together like watercolors. Then her tongue was there, begging for entrance; Crowley allowed it in, began to suck on it languidly.

Something was stirring in Crowley's gut: not just arousal but _excitement._ It had been painfully long since anyone had done more than just submit to him. He pressed closer. Strangely desperate, he dug his nails into the skin of Naomi's neck as he forced their bodies together. And _kissed_. He needed this- shit, how he needed this- a moment of sharpness and color amid a grey and foggy day, a sacrament to his latent humanity that didn't involve guilt or grief or regret.

Around his own mouth, Crowley could feel Naomi begin to smile; then she gave his lower lip a sudden nip and pulled away.

They both sat back, breathing hard. Crowley reached for his drink to steady himself, avoiding Neve's gaze.

"Your reputation is well-deserved," Naomi said at last.

"Not bad yourself. For a choir girl."

"Renege on this, and I'll kill you," she continued, still in the same breathless voice.

Crowley smirked. "If you're trying to dampen the mood, love, threats are hardly the way."

Naomi stifled a smile, and rather than reply, she turned to Neve. "Ready to go, dear?"

A strange light in her eyes, Neve turned to Crowley. This was it, he realized- she was about to go where he well and truly could not follow.

Neve took his hand and held it gently against her lips. The fear and the pain were gone from her expression, replaced by the compassion and the understanding he'd seen every day those seven wonderful years.

"I've hope for you yet, Fergus," she murmured, breath warm against his skin. "Even if you've none for yourself."

"Neve," Crowley whispered, leaning over to embrace her, to pull her unbroken body to him for he first time in centuries-

And then they were gone.

Alone at the table, Crowley downed the rest of his scotch, then reached for Naomi's abandoned wine.

* * *

"So you never saw her again?"

Crowley pulled a face. "King of Hell, mate. Don't exactly keep a vacation house in Heaven."

Sam pulled the final stitch through, cut the suturing threat, and put the needle aside. "So what happened next?"

"Back to work." Crowley shrugged. "Had sex, made deals. Naomi and I had a productive partnership for a while- both had a lot to offer. Then you lot came onto the scene and I took the whole operation over. Think you know the rest."

Sam spread a thin layer of ointment over the wound before covering it loosely with a bandage. "Done," he said, for want of anything better to say. "How do you feel?"

"Feverish. Patchworked. Thirsty. Did you waste that whole bloody bottle matting up my chest hair?" With still-unsteady hands, Crowley began to button his shirt over the bandage. His tie he left hanging undone.

Sam retrieved the whiskey from the floor and poured half into Crowley's empty water glass. Then he took a pull himself, straight from the bottle.

Crowley seized his drink and sipped at it thoughtfully.

"Not Craig," he said at last.

Sam shook his head. "The King of Hell is a scotch snob," he marveled.

"Got about thirty bottles stashed," Crowley said, by way of reply. "Never know when you'll need it. I- used to summon it. That's a handy spell, to summon your booze. I- can't. Anymore."

Crowley took another drink. Despite all he'd revealed, Sam had the distinct impression that those words had been the hardest for him to say all night.

"What- can you do?"

Crowley held one hand up, frowning as he pointed directly at a spare bandage on the table. The bandage sparked, smoked, and utterly failed to catch fire.

"Even what I could do as a human, I can't anymore," Crowley said, after a long pause. "I can do that. And still heal, it seems- sort of. Enough to probably survive being chest shot point-blank."

"You'll survive."

"What if I don't?"

"Stay on the antibiotics. We'll keep it clean."

"No, I mean- brainstorm with me, would you, Moose? Even if I survive this- what happens in forty years?"

Sam felt his eyebrows ascending his forehead; he frowned, forcing them to lower. "I don't know."

"The thing is," Crowley went on, "where would I go? I mean, I don't think you could call me a monster anymore. Not properly, at least- so not Purgatory. Not Heaven, of course. So what, Hell? The whole bloody thing'll start all over again. I'll make a deal, get off the rack, become a demon- round two..." Before Sam's eyes the philosophical inquiry was becoming a veritable plea. Creeping across Crowley's face was a look of genuine weariness and fear.

"So what?" he went on, "I used to think, I could burn my bones and that'd be the end of it. But you burned Bobby's bones, didn't you? And he still crashed the party! There's no end to it, and I- _I just want to stop!_ I'm so tired!" Crowley howled, voice filling the room then dying away. "I'm so tired, Sam," he muttered.

Stunned into silence by the wet flash of light in Crowley's eyes, Sam fumbled for a comment. "Some lives, I guess you never get to leave-"

"And don't fucking give me that carry-on-wayward-son shit," Crowley snapped. "We've already established that I'm not a soldier. Tailor, whore, salesman, king- _does any of that sound like a soldier to you!?_"

Sam said nothing. Crowley closed his eyes and drained the rest of the drink; a tear and a drop of whiskey raced each other down his neck.

There was as dull clink as he set his glass back on the table. His weary sigh ended in a surprisingly childish sniffle.

"Finish it," Crowley said.

"What?"

"Finish it. The eighth injection. I can't wonder anymore. I can't live with- both inside me. If I'm going to fall- let me fall. Or rise. Or fucking _whatever._"

"Are you sure?" Choosing to 'save' Crowley during the Trials had been a matter of convenience. Now the Trials were over- failed- and from this new perspective, Sam was beginning to wonder if saving him shouldn't have been a goal in its own right.

"Halfway isn't my style, love. I've got a fever, the whiskey's actually doing something to me, and I'm fairly sure I need a piss. Just _finish_ it."

"I- have to confess."

"Then do it!" Crowley commanded. The demon- well no, the man- sank heavily back into his seat. His expression was impatient, petulant, but still clearly on the edge of tears.

"Okay," Sam murmured. "Okay."

Confessing was easier when there was only a month's worth of load to unburden. Before long, Sam sat again beside Crowley, blood-filled syringe at hand.

"What are you gonna do?" Sam asked quietly.

"Well, I imagine that's got a lot to do with whether or not you let me go."

"Are you ready?"

"To take the final step towards my second infancy? To fully turn my back on the position I was raised to fill?"

"For me to stick this needle in you."

Crowley smiled, looking genuinely comforted by Sam's response. "When you put it that way, Moose." He rolled up the sleeve on his left arm, and extended it determinedly towards Sam.

Crowley closed his eyes.

Sweat pricked Sam's forehead as he grasped the arm with one hand, feeling the feverish skin beneath his fingers. He found a vein, slid the needle in-

And pushed the plunger down.

Crowley gave a low, short sound- less than a sob but more than a gasp; Sam pulled the syringe from his arm but stayed beside him as his head lolled forward. He writhed, held in the chair now only by his restraints.

"Hey-" Sam began, then stopped; it was clear the man couldn't hear him. Crowley was moaning now, a guttural monotone broken only by the unmistakable sounds of retching and the subsequent splash of vomit on the floor.

Sam didn't realize what he was doing until his hand was already on Crowley's shoulder.

He wasn't sure how long it lasted, but his arm was asleep by the time the shuddering stopped and Crowley took a deep, ragged breath. Sam pulled his hand away.

Crowley raised his head. His face was drenched in sweat; his bloodshot eyes struggled in vain to focus. When they finally did, he was looking right at Sam.

"So?" Sam prompted.

"I-" Crowley rasped, then coughed. "I th-thought you w-were Neve. You- you look l-like her." Alarmed, Sam felt his chest tighten.

Then Crowley coughed once more, and when he began to speak again he sounded almost like himself- allbeit a quieter, exhausted version. "Sorry. Not sure why I'm telling you that. All right, let's see- still horny. Still ornery. Still angry with the world at large. That's a relief."

"Do you feel any different?"

"Yeah- I really do need a piss. Bit surprised that didn't end up on the floor as well." His voice was flat, as though he lacked the energy to properly sell his jokes.

"Crowley-"

"I was thinking," Crowley interrupted. "Thinking what the first thing I could do would be. Going to Disneyworld seemed a bit cliché, so-"

"What?"

"So I know where Kevin's mum is," Crowley replied, with a sigh. "She's alive. And I was thinking- we could go and get her. Do you think- that's a start?"

Sam blinked. Crowley was staring up at him, haggard, broken, and improbably _eager._

"I think that's a start," Sam agreed.

And Crowley closed his eyes, lips curving gently with the ghost of a smile.


End file.
